


flick the lightswitch on and off

by godtrashed



Series: emerge, transformed [2]
Category: Law Abiding Citizen (Polygon), Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Canon-Typical Cognitive Dissonance, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtrashed/pseuds/godtrashed
Summary: Russ and Doug reunite.





	flick the lightswitch on and off

**Author's Note:**

> the author chooses to believe this is not, in fact, rpf. on the other hand, the author may just be trying feebly to self-justify. either way, who gives a shit, welcome to hell.

This isn’t him. There’s no other explanation for it. It’s — whatever, it’s Doug’s influence, it’s someone else’s hands on the wheel. He’s been sweet-talked into it, ‘it’ specifically being Doug’s lap, with Doug’s hands pressing him closer closer closer as they kiss until Russ can’t breathe. Doug’s thigh shifts between his legs and the sound he makes is not a sound he knew was possible. It’s not him. It’s just not something he could ever normally do.

“Russell,” croons Doug, and dips his head lower, down to the crook of Russ’s neck. His teeth are just a little too sharp to be human. “You’ve been holding out on me, Russell.”

Russ shuts his eyes, catches a whining sound between his teeth. He’s a good person. He loves animals and photography and insuring other people’s property. He doesn’t smoke or drink or murder, and he absolutely does not grind down harder on the demon who is definitely leaving hickeys on his neck. Is it still a hickey if you break the skin? He doesn’t know, because he never thought he’d need to know, because he never — it was never meant to come up. His pulse is everywhere, thrumming in his hands and his feet and his dick hard enough to hurt. He can’t even start to find a rhythm. It’s all just pressure, building too fast; he’s a mess of nerve endings and broken-up little noises, like Doug has smashed him into pieces and poured him back into a new and unfamiliar body. None of this is who he is. It can be something that’s happening to him, if he tries.

“Sh-sh-sh.” Doug’s mouth finds the hinge of his jaw, touches a kiss to his skin like a full stop. “Slow down, sweetheart, we have all the time in the world—” and he lifts his head again, and his lips are so soft when they find Russ’s lips, so unbitten and unpicked-at and _god_ Russ is going to die wrapped up in this. He’s going to suffocate and he won’t even feel it. The echo of fire ghosts over his skin; it was so much easier than this just to sink into the magma and burn.

“Nn,” he manages, when the kiss breaks apart. “Doug, more, I need—”

Doug _bites_ him, a sharp nip to his bottom lip, and sure, he hears himself yelp, but not before he feels himself flinch hard enough for more of that unbearable friction. “Be _patient,_ Russ,” he says, and Russ almost laughs. “You’ll want to savour this. You’ll see.”

This, at least, is familiar -- the back-and-forth, the shape of their conversation. Russ clings to him, fingertips pressed into the flesh of his back. Doug is not supposed to have a body. Russ is not supposed to be able to touch him. Doug eases Russ’s jeans down over his hips, and he closes his eyes, and colours he’s never seen in his life coalesce behind his eyelids as Doug finally, _finally_ starts to palm his dick.

It’s not as though it’s new, not completely -- he’s done this before, alone, quick and furtive in a bedroom he barely remembers and a body he consigned to the flames. But Doug drags his thumb over the head of Russ’s cock and he shudders as starlight cuts clean through the colour; it’s something else, something unfamiliar and insistent that has him tensed-up and gasping against Doug’s shoulder. Doug murmurs something into his ear, and he can’t understand it, or he doesn’t want to try. He might as well be saying _you know those are guns,_ or _you’re my everything._ It doesn’t matter. Every bead of sweat on his back is a knifepoint.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks, muffled against Doug’s skin. He could bite. He could break the skin; he could reciprocate. Temptation is so much closer here, with the insistent scent of brimstone on the air.

Doug is stroking him harder, now; there’s a rhythm to it that’s wrecking his heartbeat. “Oh, Russell,” he says, breathy and soft. “I could very well ask you the same question.”

In Los Santos they set fire to cars and shot strangers at the waterfront, and Russ asked a similar question then: _what are you making me do?_ But there are questions it’s better not to ask -- he figured that out quickly enough, once the dust had settled and he’d made it out of the country. Doug never learned this, or he learned it and ignored it because that’s what demons do. Doug will push and push and push until everything is illuminated, and then again until everything is on fire. _You know that’s not a camera, don’t you, Russ?_ he asked in Kyrat; _we had fun, right?_ as the clothes on his back caught fire. And on the threshold of his apartment, blinds closed against the glare of the furnace right outside: _Russ, surely you know what you’ve become?_

“Doug,” he gasps, and rocks into the slick heat of Doug’s hand. “Doug, _please._ ” It’s an answer, sort of; a reply, if nothing else, to the question Doug could very well have asked. Maybe it will all be okay if they stop asking questions, and whatever’s happening can be happening to them both, and nobody needs to be anything but who they definitely are.

“All right, Russ,” Doug whispers, soothing, coaxing. Russ’s bones are made of light; his skin is dissolving into nothing but heat. “All right.” When Russ comes, all the colours burn away to white.

He’s shaking as he comes back to himself, sweat cooling sticky on his skin. Doug is cradling the back of his head in one hand, every touch a small caress. He’s never been so aware of himself, so plugged-in to every raw nerve in his body; the aching in his thighs where he’s straddling Doug’s lap, the little stab of pain where he’s bitten into his own bottom lip. The strange and unfamiliar pressure against his horns -- small, stubby things -- where they rest on Doug’s shoulder. He can’t open his eyes. This body isn’t his. If he opens his eyes it will be like taking ownership, or at least responsibility for what it’s done.

Doug hums quietly, almost a sigh, and gathers him closer; his right hand is covered in Russ’s come, and he leaves smears of it all over Russ’s back, but it’s all right, this isn’t him, it’s fine. “My poor pumpkin,” he says, and it’s like being stabbed, like a spear or a stake straight through the heart. “You really needn’t tie yourself in knots like this, Russell. You’re a demon. You’re here. We’re _long_ past the point of playing those games.”

He knew what he was doing, when he asked the internet where to begin. There was never a point of no return. There was never a point he could return to -- just this, the destination, inevitable from the start.

“I broke the contract,” he says. His throat hurts; his teeth feel weird, uncomfortably sharp in his mouth. “I could go. If I wanted.”

Doug makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “You _did_. Didn’t you?”

“I could do it again,” says Russ. “I’m just saying. It’s… it’s on the table, for me.”

This isn’t him. It’s a game, or it’s a simulation crafted just for him, or it’s a lie he can’t do anything else but believe. He snakes a hand between them, down over Doug’s pale stomach; he moves lower, lower, and Doug doesn’t interfere. Doug does what Doug has always done, and lets Russ believe whatever he needs to believe.


End file.
